How to Talk to a Widower

apologetically. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” he says. “That was uncalled-for.”
    “Damned straight,” Russ says, itching for a fight. We’ve been holed up in this room all day, and he’s pulsating with nervous energy.
    “I’m sorry, Doug,” Stephen says, sitting down next to me. “I’m an asshole.”
    “Forget it.”
    “Are you going to get out of here today?”
    “I should have been out of here hours ago. Apparently there’s been a run on CAT scans.”
    “Well, I’m glad to see you’re okay. We’ve had our differences, but we’re still family, right? At least for the time being.”
    “Thanks, Stephen,” I say, touched in spite of myself. “I know I’ve been a schmuck to you in the past, but I’ve always suspected that deep down, you might not be a complete tool.”
    He nods and clears his throat, and we look in opposite directions for a few seconds.
    “I remain unconvinced,” Russ says, and we all share a light, tension-breaking chuckle.
    “So I take it you’re not going to the wedding?” Stephen says, and that’s when it dawns on me that he’s wearing a tux.
    “What, you are?”
    He nods, his face turning red, and runs his fingers through his hair. “I need to see her, Doug. I’ll die if I don’t.”
    In the harsh fluorescent lighting, I can see all the weight he’s lost, the gauntness of his face and the stricken look in his bloodshot, tired eyes. He reminds me of me.
    “Yeah,” I say. “I guess you do.”
    “Where do you put my chances?”
    “It’s Claire,” I say. “There are no odds. It’s all wild card.”
    “Well,” he says, getting to his feet. “I guess I’ve outstayed my welcome. Is there anything I can get you before I go?”
    I look at Russ, standing against the wall in his sleep-rumpled suit. “I’m having a thought,” I say.
    He looks back at me. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
    “My little sister is getting married,” I say, rolling out of bed. It hurts, but not as bad as I thought it would.
    “Yeah,” Russ says, coming over to help me. “That’s what I thought you were thinking.” He goes to the closet and pulls out my bloodstained suit pants.
    “You can’t just leave,” Stephen says.
    “Watch me.”
    “What about your CAT scan?”
    “The longer I wait for it, the less fun it sounds.”
    Waiting at the elevators, we are spotted by one of the nurses. “Where are you taking him?” she says, walking hurriedly toward us.
    “Out,” Russ says.
    “You haven’t been discharged!” she calls as we step into the elevator. “You can’t just leave.”
    “Watch him,” Stephen says as the doors slide shut.

    Stephen’s Porsche is built for two, with just a narrow leather plank for a backseat, but somehow, Russ manages to contort himself into it, with his long legs spilling into the front on either side of the stick shift, his feet braced against the dash. I sit in the passenger seat, using his leg as an armrest and grunting in pain every time we hit a bump in the road.
    Bump.
    “Oof.”
    “Sorry.”
    “It’s okay.”
    Bump.
    “Ugh.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    “It’s fine.”
    On the way, Stephen calls for a limo and driver that will meet us at my house. Once home, Russ showers and changes into a dark suit, while I do my best with a sponge bath and a quick shampoo, since I don’t want to deal with changing my bandages. Then Russ helps me into the ridiculous gray tux and tails that Mike chose for his wedding party, and we stand together in my bedroom, studying our reflections in the full-length mirror behind Hailey’s closet door. We look like something out of a magazine. We are young, slim, sad, and beautiful. We are forty minutes late.
    “We look killer,” Russ says.
    “We are not without a certain raffish charm,” I say.
    “So, let’s do this thing.”
    “No drinking.”
    “No bleeding.”
    “No hitting on the bride, under any circumstances.”
    “No gunplay.”
    “Deal.”
    “Deal.”
    The limo is a stretch, of course. What else would Stephen have on speed dial? He is standing on the sidewalk, finishing a fat cigar when we step outside. “Finally,” he says, putting out the cigar on the sole of his shoe. “I was about to send a search party.” We descend into plush leather seats, and the limo pulls away from the curb like a yacht from its berth. We sit in silence, looking out the tinted windows, absorbed in our own nervous thoughts, and then Russ flips through the CD collection in a